


Shadow Country

by donutsweeper



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Western, Gen, POV Outsider
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-23
Updated: 2014-06-23
Packaged: 2018-02-05 23:39:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1836379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/donutsweeper/pseuds/donutsweeper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Old West was a dangerous place, especially when the dead came a'calling.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shadow Country

It was Widow Johnson, but it wasn't. Cholera had taken her and her children last winter during a snowstorm so bad it was impossible to get the wagon to town for help - not that there'd have been much to give with no doctor in town - but once the weather had broken some of the men had gone to check on the outlying homesteads to see how they'd fared and found her and her brood dead. He'd buried the family himself.

But now she was back. Somehow.

The preacher shivered. It was August, but he was freezing. Crouching in the corner he could see the fire still burning in the potbelly stove in the center of the room and hear the potatoes sizzling in the pan, but he couldn't feel any heat coming from it. He was so cold and so alone. Except for her, Widow Johnson. And the two young men who'd just burst in.

The first, a tall, strapping lad in a buckskin jacket, lifted a sawed off Winchester '73 and fired right at the widow, who suddenly wasn't there anymore, the bullet smashing into a long on the other side of the cabin. For a second it seemed to get warmer and the preacher started to get up when the second young man, who was somehow even taller and broader than the first, pushed him back down, sweeping his ankle length duster to the side and pulling free an old Yellow Boy, a Winchester '66 with its brass all polished and shined up. 

"Sam, look out!" the first yelled, "Behind you!" And then while still shouting, before Sam had a chance to bring up his rifle, he grabbed the fry pan off the stove. Potatoes flew all over the place, but Widow Johnson - who'd appeared out of nowhere - sort of screamed and disappeared in a puff of smoke when he struck her with it.

"That won't keep her away for long," Sam said, "Come on, Father, we have to get out of here."

"I'm not a Father, just a preacher."

"Whatever. Look, it doesn't matter, but she'll be back-"

"No. I'm not going anywhere until you tell me what just happened. That was Widow Johnson." He saw the two men give each other a quick look, and seem to be having a whole conversation between themselves with a quirked eyebrow and a soft shrug. "She died last winter," he continued. "She and her three little ones are in the graveyard behind the church. I said the prayers over 'em myself." 

Sam ran a hand through his hair, muttering something about stubborn old pastors before walking over to the pantry shelf and grabbing the salt. "That the only door?" he asked. "And windows? There ain't any windows, right? No other ways in or out of any sort?" 

The preacher just shook his head. "Just the one room."

"Good," Sam grunted, shutting the door and pouring a line of salt in front of it. "I'm Sam, which you already know, that's my brother Dean." Dean gave a half-hearted wave, but his eyes were serious, scanning the room for something. "And you just met the ghost of Widow Johnson. And if you don't let us do what we need to do she's gonna kill you."

Sam led the preacher to the cabin's sole chair. "It'll probably be better if you sit for this."

"Probably for the best," the preacher admitted, practically collapsing into the chair.

There was an awkward moment where no one said anything before Dean spoke up, "Coffee?" He'd finally relaxed his grip on his rifle a bit after Sam finished with the salt and he set about getting some coffee going on the stove. 

"What just happened? Who? What?" The preacher stumbled over his words.

"I reckon, seeing you're a man of the cloth, this," Sam gestured to the salt line and the potatoes strewn everywhere on the cabin floor, "Well, it might be a bit hard to get your mind around. But unless you want to be as dead as the widow and the nine people she's already killed, you better try."

"Nine... what?"

Dean poured out a cup of coffee and added a splash of something from his flask before handing it to the preacher. "You know what happened to the Potters."

"Well, of course. The river took the entire family." He looked from Dean to Sam and then back to Dean. "Everyone just assumed their horses spooked or the wagon's axle broke or…." he trailed off as Dean shook his head. "But, the youngest was a mere babe, why harm her?"

"The widow may be planted in the bone orchard by your church, but she ain't resting there. She's going in a straight line from her homestead to town. The Potters were just on her way. And so are you," Dean explained, a quiet certainty in his voice.

That was why, two hours later, the preacher stood on the top of the hill and watched as the two brothers dug up Widow Johnson's grave. It was hard to believe that he, a preacher, was helping someone commit the grievous sin of desecrating a corpse, but he was. He'd seen her ghost, and understood this was necessary for her to rest properly. 

The 'salt and burn' as they called it, was a quick one. "I'll finish up here," the preacher said once the fire burned down. "You boys must be plumb worn out by now." He held out his hand for them to shake. "I owe you two my life, that's a debt I won't ever be able to repay."

Sam's grip was firm and strong. "Just doing our job," he said, brushing the praise aside. 

"Well, I'm mighty proud to know you. Next time you're coming through this way, you stop and see me." The preacher used his Sunday sermon voice, trying to make it sound like an order. "And don't you worry, I won't mention anything to anyone, especially the sheriff."

"Thanks for that." Dean gave a quick, but equally strong, handshake before heading off to where their two black geldings were grazing. "Sometimes the law ain't all that accepting of us and what we got to do." He swung up onto his horse and checked to make sure his rifle was secure. "Come on, Sammy, we're burning daylight. Bobby sent a wire about a chupacabra two counties over. We got a long ride ahead of us." He turned back and tipped his hat, "Pastor," he said, before riding off, his brother following right behind.

"I'm not-" the preacher started to correct Dean before shaking his head and shouting back, "Go with God, boys!" He watched them ride off until the two horses were only a dark spot on the horizon before picking up the shovel to rebury the remains. "I have a feeling you'll be needing all the help you can get," he murmured, his eyes almost glowing yellow in the light of the setting sun.


End file.
